Red Hunt
by AllyH
Summary: Red gets taken and Dembe lives to tell the tale. Liz is left to her own devices and wastes no time in starting a manhunt. Post S1 finale. Lizzington.
1. Red Sheep

First fic, yay for Ally!

So for this one, I started off that Red quote down there and thought about how little we hear 'Red' from Liz the entire season, so I thought I'd fix that – if even a little bit. I shifted to thinking there were three major ways in which Liz can say his name – soft, hard, and neutral – and I divided the story into three parts (or chapters).

_ Red Sheep,_ the first part of the three, catches Liz slightly vulnerable and sort of extremely afraid when she utters his name. It's the shortest of the three, too, and I hadn't intended it to be. Trust me to go all out with intricate plots that take weeks to plot out and just as long to write.

Really hope you like it and – I guess – let the red hunt begin.

P.S. T for now, but will probably slip into M because of the violence.

* * *

_Raymond 'Red' Reddington_: I finally had a chance to see her, Sam. There's a fire inside she got from you. _She's volatile, unpredictable, soft, and hard, and... soft again_. Stronger than she knows. You gave her an incredible gift, Sam. Taking her in and loving her as your own.

I

Red Sheep

The absence of a stable home stung less when not in the presence of her father's grave, but not visiting would've caused guilt too deep to handle.

Liz stood beside the tombstone and stared at the flowers she'd sat down to rest there, a few feet above Sam's coffin, a few feet above his head. Unperturbed by the loud thundering or the threat of heavy downpour, she thought of nothing in particular, but felt it inappropriate to leave just yet.

She'd left without notifying Red – not that her actions were restricted to whether or not he gave his permission – but he wouldn't be happy about how she was exposed in the middle of nowhere, having only her coat to dodge a bullet if one came her way. She thought, _bring it on_. She thought, _shoot me now before I change my mind_.

Her father hadn't died like that, but she could. Sam had had it slower, but not as a result of viciousness. She assumed Red hadn't walked into that room with the intention of killing him, but of merely saying goodbye and letting cancer pull the proverbial trigger. But hell, when Sam displayed the smallest of signals that he may tell his daughter the truth, Red had bent over and strangled him; or suffocated him? One of the two.

And then he'd confessed to her because… why? She often wondered if her insistence on truth had made him uncomfortable enough to feel obligated to keep any vague replies to himself when he obviously had a million ways of escaping her question. Red didn't have to tell her a strong, yet regretting 'yes.' It could've been the first lie he sold her, or another example of his insistence on never telling her everything, which would've made her none the wiser. But with tears in his eyes and the most powerful of urges to stand and turn her around when she went to leave, he'd said, 'yes.' As in, 'yes, I killed your father.' 'Yes, I killed my best friend.'

And if that had hurt him half as much as it'd hurt her, he was still living with the pain.

Liz's eyes lifted from the flowers and roamed around the field. She must've been there for a good half hour, seeing that she was now the only living human being in a mile radius.

Back in her car, a plate-less, black AMG Red had given her to use indefinitely, she buried her face in her hands and rested like that for a few seconds before driving off. Fast but not without care, she drove with a target in mind – Red's, where she'd stumble on her own words of possible forgiveness. But he'd help steer the conversation as well as he usually did and he'd aid her in wording her empathy.

And if she managed to gather enough courage until then, she'd turn it around on Red and acknowledged it must've been hell, maybe reiterate what he'd assured her countless times in the past.

_You have me_.

* * *

Liz knocked on his door a couple of times before Dembe's voice came loud and clear from behind it, speaking to someone on the inside. "Leave it!"

He opened the door in slow-motion, leaning on the handle rather than pulling it towards him. His eyes sagged when he tried to look up from the floor, and his torso looked straight out of a war scene. Bruised and battered but trying to recover, Dembe stepped aside for Liz. But she didn't budge.

"Are you –"

"Come on in." Anymore than that and his vocal chords would've given out.

This time around, she walked forward and offered an arm. He wasted no time with pride and fell forward with an arm around her neck, pushing her off balance. Liz groaned but brought herself back, closing the door and slipping her free hand at his middle, avoiding the three gunshot wounds.

"Where?" she asked. Dembe pointed his chin to the left, so she moved.

Liz eased him onto a couch – brought his head slightly upwards to lean against an armrest and settled both of his hands on top of his stomach. When he showed no indication of an ache, she pulled a chair out from a desk and sat down near his feet.

Since 'where is he?' was too selfish a question, she asked,

"How is he letting you walk around like that?"

"He's gone."

All expression left her face. "What?"

"He was taken."

"By whom?"

"They'd be dead if I knew."

"Where? When?"

Dembe only grunted in response, as though speaking would've busted his stitches open. She wanted to help, keep him from touching the bandages, but he did all of the work himself; stiffened, tightened his fists and squeezed his eyes, kept from crying out and sighed, came back.

"Not an hour ago. On the way to you."

"You followed me?"

"Why are you… surprised?"

Gradually raising her voice, she replied, "He was taken because he decided I couldn't take a step on my own without his –"

"They would've taken him anyway – today or tomorrow, this morning or tonight."

Dembe paused and breathed, oblivious to how exhausted he looked. He tried to breathe conviction into every word, but his sentence came out strangled. "They knew what they were doing."

"They – what'd they look like?"

"Like anyone."

"No – come on." More of a plea than an order. More weak than persuasive.

"Masked, tall and short – five of them. Climbed out of an Escalade and climbed back in with him." He didn't want to sleep anymore, but ached to remember; even if it was an inch of skin ending up visible from beneath all the black layers, he wanted to remember.

"Did they hurt him?"

"Shot him in the leg. Once." Another beat. "Left."

She nodded, but only to herself. Even given the coordinates of the crime scene, there would be no instantaneous, movie-like solving the mystery; for lack of data, witnesses and most of all, Dembe's abilities. So Liz abandoned the chair and kneeled down beside Red's main man. She took his left hand in her own and watched him break into cries and muscle spasms and uncontrollable noises of frustration.

"You're not moving today," she said. "It's okay."

"Mm," was all he could manage.

"Long as you talk to me."

Dembe stayed quit for so long, she thought he may have fallen asleep. The first word that came out of his mouth when he opened his eyes again – slowly, like it hurt – was his best friend's name. He might as well have punched Liz in the stomach.

"Red's not here and… the doc was annoyed he had to fix me up. His… _people_… aren't gonna do much to find him."

For fear of seeing her eyes glisten in the warm, dim light, Dembe kept looking at ceiling. While he still had her hand in his, he'd look upwards and narrate whichever part of the abduction she demanded; or as much as he recalled of it.

"Did they talk?" she asked.

"No. Knew better."

Figured."Color?"

"One black. Could be more. Saw his neck in the brawl."

"There was a fight?"

"I _tried _to fight."

"Tell me."

Dembe felt strings of hair against the back of his hand, like she couldn't hold her head up any longer and let it fall forward, chin to her chest and forehead hovering above their fingers.

"I thought there were three, so I… jumped in. Raymond pulled out a gun to shoot one of them. Put him to the ground with one shot. But then another two…"

"Okay, okay…"

"He screamed at me to _go, go, go_… Saw them before I did."

"Was anyone there in charge? Was he with them – the employer?"

"No. If there is one…"

"There _is_ one."

"Who?"

"Berlin," she said but regretted her own impatience. "Or…" Another pause. "Some asshole I don't know because I'm not Reddington!"

"Miss Keen…" She'd yelled.

"Sorry," Liz said.

Dembe launched into a series of questions you'd ask a profiler on duty, hoping she wouldn't stop on account of his distress. But then again, the desire to sleep coerced his lips together and his hands limp. Reduced his speaking capabilities to nothing.

"Why?"

"I don't know…" was her instinctive response. However, "Could it be about me?"

"Everything's about you, if even –"

"It's been a month of cooperation," she clarified. "Where he goes, I go, and vice-versa. Could be about our recent… alliance. If we wait, they may call to say they'll hand him back if I surrender."

Then another thought. "Surrender for what? I know no one who'd want me dead. Even Tom," she tired but it came out strangled. "If he wants me, it's to get to Reddington."

He didn't move a muscle. She continued. "Or maybe they want us to pay up or hear him die. Pay up or clutch our phones to our ears as they shoot holes into –"

"Elizabeth."

"I don't know. What did they look like? What did they want? Why capture him in the middle of the street? Why now? Why today? Why was it so easy?"

"I don't…"

"Dembe, talk to me."

His grip on her fingers loosened as his whole body relaxed. He would've felt just as comfortable on the floor or outside or cuffed to a spiked bed – anywhere there was no risk of getting shot and he could drift off; maybe wake up in the morning and find Red at Elizabeth's side, stroking her hair and massaging the back of her neck to wake her up slowly. Then he'd be able to fall back asleep and come back around when Raymond was back in charge and every gunshot wound had healed.

She was still whispering his name when he slipped out of consciousness.

Liz sighed out. She placed his hand on his torso and made sure the bandaging was intact, then moved to remove a couple of cushions from another couch and make an impromptu bed on the floor. She lay on her back and rubbed at her own forehead with one hand, motioning until she had no energy to even breathe. No tears threatened, but her throat was obstructed. So much so that Red's name just barely found its way out of her mouth.

"Who took you, Red?"

* * *

"How is he?"

The question held only worry, and a little bit of hope. In Aram's voice, it sounded pained; most definitely empathetic.

Ressler threw his keys and phone on Cooper's desk and crashed in his chair. He didn't feel out of place – not in the least – but he explained it by a disquieting lack of time to feel anything at all. Running a hand over his face, he said, "Still out. He moved a little – what was it? – a month ago, but since then…"

"He'll be fine."

Don nodded for the sake of it. "What do we have on the people who dropped the chip?"

"Still nothing. Completely independent group of lads. Reddington hired them and dropped them just like that."

"Keen's nowhere to be found…" he mused.

Aram shrugged and sagged against the doorframe. "She said she'd quit post-Reddington's last case. She's long gone – I'm telling you. I bet she got hitched in Vegas and she's now hanging out on her honeymoon… in Vegas."

Ressler wanted to laugh more than he wanted air, but he straightened and said, "Tell me you don't buy that."

"What's there not to buy? There isn't time for doubts. Tell _me _you found someone on the newest dealer you guys busted yesterday."

Ressler shook his head. "She hasn't left Reddington behind." He thought, _I wouldn't_. "_He _hasn't let _her_ go."

"Maybe he's got binoculars, watching from a safe distance. This dealer could be our connection between the main guys and the director –"

"Reddington used her as bait. Used _us_ as bait; but he isn't done with Keen. If that's the case, she needs to be pull out of wherever he has her. If it isn't, we've gotta bring them both back to the task force."

Aram frowned. The case they had to be working on died down in intensity.

"Bring them back?"

"If Keen chose to work with Reddington, figure out where this Berlin is, it'd be better for everyone if they worked with us."

Respectful attitude aside, Aram replied with, "You think Liz's gone rogue?"

"Maybe," he said and nodded.

Aram prepared to leave, knowing he'd be more productive after a good night's sleep, but felt compelled to give way to the unnamed force that demanded he ask, "Who do you want back? Reddington or Keen?"

Ressler didn't grant the question with a response, but found he didn't need to. Before he could open his eyes again, Aram had shut the door behind him.

Elizabeth Keen had run off with Reddington. Denied him the opportunity to keep the task force alive alongside the best rookie he'd known and capture his half-a-decade-old target with a name so feared Ressler liked to say it repeatedly, just to prove to himself he was brave enough.

The force had learned of an impending attack on the director of the Bureau, which meant all cases were prioritized lower than keeping the boss of all bosses alive. By word of mouth, Cooper had become the elite, the best of his league and by association, so did his employees. Now, even with Cooper tied to a hospital bed, Ressler's task force was _the _force in preventing the attack.

The investigation lacked names. The files spoke of a dealer caught in the middle of a discussion that involved some other federal agents and assistant directors – a discussion revolving around what would happen if the current director… stepped down.

They spoke of a spy game too dangerous for the FBI to handle it alone, so CIA agents were assigned to each task force currently on the case. Ressler called her Agent Something, because Ressler liked to think Meera Malik was irreplaceable.

The record went on to show one of the agents aforementioned was supposedly a contract killer, but how many accusations like had been made by someone looking for cash or fame? How many had been valid? Either way, colleagues of this drug dealer had talked around about how their friend knew stuff that could suck a few federal agents' credit cards dry.

By the following week – one of them had claimed a few days before – they'd be taking long baths in thin, green rectangles with famous faces on them.

An internal war like the dealers proposed was coming would not only be the downfall of Ressler's task force, but the entire Bureau. An Agency in which no one trusts that his employees or associates are doing their jobs is a team who admits defeat before the battle's begun.

But Agent Keen had disappeared, and she wasn't far from Red, whatever the circumstances.

_What do we have on the dealer?_

_ This dealer could be the connection between our main guys and the director._

_ There isn't time for doubts._

Donald Ressler started work on locating Elizabeth Keen.

* * *

"On the right. There."

Liz would've thought of the scene as rather remote, or at least slightly concealed by trees and taller-than-the-usual bushes, but when she descended from the car and onto an exposed space of only grass, she questioned Red's kidnappers. Specifically, she questioned whether or not they'd been careless on purpose, or whether they'd known the space would lack life completely prior to the taking.

Dembe used the car door for support to get out, almost worried he'd tear it off. When he finally raised his head, Liz turned to face him.

"Tell me you remember the car."

He nodded. "Grand Cherokee. But don't ask me for the plate number."

"Where'd they come from?"

"That way," he said and pointed to the left.

"Parked about… here?" She stood at the edge of the sidewalk, some ten feet away from the crossroads. She'd driven Dembe up the street that fell vertically on the one Dembe was describing. The car resided in silence close to an intersection hardly any cars ever saw in their lifetime.

"The driver and his passenger climbed down first, but they didn't rush. By the time they were behind us, a third guy got out from the back."

"Who handled Red?"

Dembe frowned. "Why?"

Liz shook her head as an admission of overanalyzing and walked the path the abductors must have taken. She saw Red in front of her and the back of his coat and his fedora and thought that he'd turn around by the time she managed to slip in front of him. It would've taken three or four steps, as opposed to the maximum of two the guy on the side would've had to take.

"It was the driver. He got out of the car and walked to you, giving room to the one in the back of the Jeep. That made him the rightmost man. It's easier to sneak up from the side – less noise, less movement. The passenger and backseat-guy got you."

"Yeah…" he mused. "Whoever he was, he had a knife to Red's throat and passed him on to one of the two guys who showed up later. He had to drive."

"The driver was the best," she said. "What do you remember about him? The way he moved, skin tone, voice, anything."

"He was the dark one. Lighter than me."

"Did he talk?"

"None of them did."

Liz stopped walking. "Best case scenario, the guy was also in charge. I need… a list. I need a list of people like that you can hire to do the dirty work for you when you need to pick someone up."

"Reddington has people who can do that."

"Will they do it for you?" she asked and scanned the area; thought of driving in the same direction as the takers, but she also thought of the statistical probability of getting it right after passing the first intersection.

"I'll see, but I can't promise anything."

She sighed and nodded, set her hands on her hips and looked around. No blood stains on the ground meant someone had showed up before them to clean up, which made more sense than anything she'd concluded thus far.

"Tell me about the others."

"I don't have… You know how dark it was."

From where he was standings, Dembe's torso wasn't difficult to examine. The first of three wounds had been inflicted right below the heart, and the second still hurt his right shoulder.

"Where'd they shoot you?"

He slid against the car and into her sight. Liz decided the third hole they'd shot into his body couldn't have affected major organs. If it had, he wouldn't be speaking to her like he'd just had a rough night and nothing more.

"Why didn't they kill you?"

Dembe stared beyond her for a good ten seconds, then returned to the car door like he'd missed it _damn _bad. She considered the possibility of being handed those lists, or a chance to search in a data base so large it messed with her head. Liz thought the people she might deem probably suspects were of the most vicious, operating in a Red-like fashion that meant taking no prisoners and leaving behind no evidence. None of them would, she reckoned, have traits consistent with letting Dembe live.

She looked back up at Dembe but saw Red, with arms and legs full of bullets and covered in cuts. Liz had to blink it away.

When the realization of extreme lack of time hits, it usually hits hard.

"Will they do it for you?" she repeated, but more gravely.

"Maybe. Probably not."

"Write it down for me," she said with finality. "Everything you can remember."

He continued with a nod. "I will try to get them involved – Reddington's people."

Liz nodded, but she was as far away as could be. If Red were standing next to them, he'd corner her with nothing but pretentious and careful wording until she told him what she was thinking. But Dembe was in no position to take any other course of action than sliding back into the car.

She stayed outside for a few more moments like she was taking the time to make a decision, then occupied the driver's seat.

"I'll take you home." What was on the surface a sentence that announced her intention helped Liz to reassure herself she needed to take no more than one step at a time.

* * *

Between the gate and the entrance of Red's new mansion, a security guard positioned himself between Liz and Dembe, knocking the latter off balance. She put her hands up but her gaze was inquisitive; instant surrender, the guard wouldn't have a chance to witness.

"I can't let you in," he said.

"Is Reddington –"

The guard cut Dembe off short. "No. We're doing everything we can to locate him, but we can't allow _strangers_ into his _home_."

A well thought-out punch in the face was better, Liz decided, than asking, 'Strangers?'

The guard tumbled to the side, but didn't fall. He rose with his gun in one hand, aiming for her forehead. By the time he and Liz were eye to eye, she had her weapon to _his_ head. An inch closer and the barrels of their pistols would've been touching.

An entire squad eased their way seemingly out of nowhere and chose Liz as their target. She didn't have to take her eyes off her direct opponent to spot a few rifles in the crowd. Convinced it wouldn't take too long for the red army to have her in crosshairs, she lowered her .45.

"Get inside," she said to Dembe, never looking away from the guard. As soon as Red was back in charge, she'd make sure to take it all away from his newly independent mass of legionnaires – the smug grins and the control, the glint in their eyes and the temporary power. Best case scenario, with the butt of her service weapon.

She turned to walk away, fearful her heart rate was above worryingly high. In a stress-free situation, she might've understood these people's reticence to trust a former federal agent with a thing for their boss – who reciprocated with no less interest – but not right now. Red was still missing; had been, for almost 24 hours.

* * *

Liz's elbows found support on the Mercedes steering wheel, while her hands held her head from dropping on the horn. Her eyelids felt heavy, weighed down by a few tears.

If her hunt took more than a few days, she'd start dreaming of everything Red would say to her in the event of a reunion. The worst of all, she knew before it had a chance to pop into her dreams, would be 'I could've used this time to look for Berlin with you; figure out how to get him.' There was no helping the realization he couldn't say anything that'd ring truer.

She leaned back against the leather, now faced with the post office. They might arrest her on sight on suspicions of treason and then Red might die at the hands of his assailant with her still incarcerated. Liz squeezed the steering wheel.

But then again, to hell with it, because whom had contemplation ever helped?

Liz nodded to herself a few times and vowed not to crack in the next few hours. Piece at the ready just in case, she walked to the gate she'd used as an entryway back when everyone thought the blacklist consisted of isolated cases of horrible human beings and that Tom Keen was a good husband.

She locked the car and walked over to one of the two guards, shoving ID into his face. The man remained unmoved, as if to say he was unimpressed by her attempts.

"Get Ressler down here," she said.

Finally appearing conscious, the sentry took his time in scanning her identification – moving it away and towards his face, squinting like he was having trouble uncovering the hidden meaning of a sentence in a novel. Liz gave a bitter laugh and pulled her pistol up to his forehead and not without making contact. He felt the end of the barrel cold between his eyes. From the guard's right, his colleague aimed at Liz. There was no telling when a weapon at her temple started feeling like nothing, but a thousand security men could've held her at gunpoint and she wouldn't budge an inch.

"Call him down. He'll be thrilled to see me."

Still completely silent, the sentry pulled out a radio station. When he buzzed in, his voice didn't belong, but Ressler's came back with a familiarity no one would've been prepared for, had they been in her position. It rocked her, but unnoticeably; the weapon didn't move from the man's forehead.

"What do you need?" Ressler asked.

"There's an Elizabeth Keen down here looking for you, Sir," he replied; like he had no idea who she was. Liz rolled her eyes and scoffed.

She blinked away the beat Ressler skipped.

He said, "Let her in."

The second guard's pistol didn't descend when Liz's did, probably out of spite. She wiggled her eyebrows at the temporary hindrance and slipped right past him.

She walked the same route she knew uncomfortably well. In the elevator – which, admittedly, looked more like it'd been designed for cargo – she looked at the empty space beside her all the way down. She flinched when the door clicked open and she was free to step off the metal floor.

Ressler stood in front of her old office, holding the door open for her to enter. She thought smiling unfitting, so she kept any related reactions to herself.

Irrationally afraid not to shove him into the wall, she brushed past his arm – but only lightly – and sat in her old chair. She'd written profiles in that seat, handed them to Ressler, following which he'd undermined the utility of profiles; practically reduced her job to useless.

Now, he seemed all the more skeptical to make disrespectful remarks.

"You're back," he observed.

Her expression told him, 'Nice job, not bad.'

"Do I draft the contract?"

Her expression told him, 'You were doing so well.'

Contemplation never helped anyone.

"Red's missing," she said. "I can't find him." Slight pause. "I could find him from here."

His half-smile was incredulous as he looked her up and down – as far as he could – and decided this wasn't a business intervention. Little by little, using all of the five silent seconds, Ressler confirmed his own worst fears.

"Do you miss him? Are you a mess since he's been gone, Keen?"

Of all responses she'd expected to an improvised news delivery, jealousy – or better yet, suspicion, hadn't been deemed worthy of consideration.

"If I weren't a woman, would we be having this conversation?"

"Yes," he countered. "You left the task force after Berlin slipped through our fingers. Which was only an inconvenience to Reddington, I assume. He started his own search almost immediately." At the halfway mark of his speech, Ressler stopped ending sentences in 'I assume.' "And you were with him. You joined him for lack of possibilities when it came to the future. You thought the FBI couldn't give you as much of a guarantee that you'd get your answers like Reddington."

"Reddington _is_ my answer. There _is _no prospect for finding out the truth without him."

"Where have you been?"

"Away. From you, from the Bureau, from Reddington. Tom's gone, my dad's dead, my job was unstable and the concierge of crime was on my ass all the time. I needed a break."

"We could use you over here."

"I don't have time for this," she said and rose, walking past him again and slamming the door shut for extra privacy. "I'm giving you a chance here. You help me find him, and he's yours."

You didn't have to be a certified profiler to see she'd taken the greatest leap of faith of her life. Ressler dwelled on the possibility of Reddington being his – his to interrogate, to visit every day in his cell, his to torture if he so desired and his make to public as a capture worthy of applause.

"Just… while you're interrogating him, ask a few questions of mine."

"There are other ways," he said. "Red isn't the only one who knows about –"

"Can you help me?" she yelled. Another statement like that and her hand would come into full contact with the desk. She'd pay to restore it ten times if it meant she could break the thing in two in front of Ressler.

He flinched at the timbre of her voice and made his call. Motioning for her to wait, he pulled a recorder out of a drawer and set it down on the desk in front of his former colleague. Liz could've laughed, but circumstance prohibited it again. He pushed a button as enthusiastically as he could and removed himself from her personal space only to drag a chair over to the opposite side of the desk.

"I have a case," he began with a sigh.

Liz's eyebrows shot up.

"All our resources will be available to you in the interest of finding Raymond Reddington on condition that you participate in this case. Actively."

"What kind of case?" Liz asked, but only for the record. This was only foreplay; it'd end soon to make room for her unhesitant 'yes.'

"The director of the Bureau will be under attack some time this month if all our information is correct. My task force is primary in attempting to neutralize the –"

"Your task force…"

"We're gonna find Reddington, but I've got people to answer to. As long as this case goes well, I see no impediment in initiating a thorough search."

"Thorough search…" she repeated. Liz let her eyes wander. "There are cameras in here. Mics all over the place."

"I'll take care of it."

At one point during the meeting, Liz had reduced her blinking to the minimum, but now her eyes stung. Red was present instead of darkness every time her lids pressed together, wounded, hurting, worried, on the brink of death.

"When this is all over, though…" Ressler whispered and covered the recorder. "I arrest him. I cuff him and bring him back here and tell you if he says anything worth your time. _If._"

"You can't guarantee anything, yeah…"

Ressler nodded a few times and smiled. Still unbelieving, still bitter, Liz found time for an interlude.

"Do you remember being upset I was leaving the force? But telling me you were gonna respect my choice no matter what?"

Ressler didn't look away.

"Why do I get the feeling you think I'm the enemy now?"

His hand stayed on the device as he spoke. "You can't come in here like nothing happened and demand resources or a good position without _actually_ having a position."

"He's gone. You want him. I want him. This is a business proposal."

As a response, his hand fell back into his lap.

Liz sighed and said, "Let's do it."


	2. Red Sentry

Boy, did that take a long time to write. _Really _hope you enjoy this one. I'm a little nervous about this one. You'll see why.

Also, I hope you don't mind original characters in fics. I needed these two to come in.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing except the two wonderful people who join us in our hunt, Alex Carter and Chelsea Hamilton. I hope, at the very least, that people don't mind Hamilton. She's the main character in the book I've been writing for about 5 years now, and is in the process of editing.

The hunt continues.

* * *

II

Red Sentry

On arrival, Dembe handed Liz a small piece of paper, folded neatly to make even tinier. She secured it in her coat pocket and sat back down across the table from him. Meeting at the crime scene had seemed redundant, so the next choice was a public place, in which conversations would be hard to overhear and any disturbances would occur with at least a hundred people as witnesses.

"Thank you," she said.

"I cannot give you any more."

She shook her head slightly and repeated, "Thank you."

"The rest aren't doing anything."

"Did you talk to any of them?"

Seated near the edge of the sidewalk, Dembe had to speak up to be heard – above passing cars and passers-by, above a crowd which appeared to consist solely for strangers.

"Yes. They're doing… _everything they can_."

"What does that mean?" she muttered. Dembe judged it genuine.

"I don't know. Either they're _this _close and want me out of it or they're not even trying."

"_Would_ they try? If business functions normally without him, there's no reason to look."

"There are still contracts to sign. If urgent dealings have come up, their interest might be high. They may be right – even trying as hard as they can."

"If that's true, I could use their information."

"If that's true," he countered, "_they_ could find him easily without much help."

Liz's eyebrows shot up. She thought silence would work wonders to express surprise, but Dembe was expecting a verbal reply. Both her hands fell into her lap.

"What are you suggesting?"

"To find out what they're doing. And if it is going well, leave them to it. If something happened to you in the process of interrupting whatever Reddington's men are doing, he'd kill me."

All in the same breath, she said, "I'm not leaving them to it, no matter how far along they've gotten."

"You – or I – do not have the ways to –"

"They followed you."

Looking over his shoulder, where Keen had glanced a second beforehand, would've been more than idiotic, which was why Dembe's head stayed in place. Instead, he searched for details in Liz's expression.

"The guy who didn't let me in yesterday," she continued. "He's here."

"Come back with me," Dembe tried. "He's seen you're talking to me – maybe I can get him to trust you enough to let you in."

"No," she said. "I'd just have to leave and they'd follow me and…" Liz cut herself off before Ressler's name came out; or the post office, even, because underestimating Dembe did no one good.

Upon contemplation, Dembe's brows came together and he said, "And what?" When Liz gave a dismissive shake of the head, he leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, careful not to knock his coffee down to the floor.

"He will follow you around and get bored and walk off."

"I don't want him on my ass," she said, a little too loudly. Blind to the guard somewhere behind him, Dembe thought his efforts to appear oblivious had gone to hell. Liz played it off by running her hands over her face and forcing the most distressed of expressions. From where the sentry was standing, it must've looked like she was damn near tears. Red was missing.

"Go back home. Take care of yourself," she advised. It was by no means an order – not unlike every suggestions that'd come out of her mouth since Reddington's disappearance – but his nod was short and his eyes appreciative. If Liz had had the time, she'd have wondered if this was the way he responded to Red – all ready and obedient, so unlike what you'd expect from a man of his posture.

"What now?" he asked.

"You can always –"

"No, no. What are _you_ going to do?"

"Keep looking," she said and emphasized her intention with a nod and a smile. "I'm gonna keep looking. But I need to lose my fan over there first, so…"

Dembe finally managed something close to a grin – teeth shiny in contrast with his skin – and rose at once with Keen. Liz regarded his face; the pain had died down enough for the glint to light his eyes. Her eyes softened, as did the tense line of her lips.

Before Liz managed a one-eighty, Dembe leaned over a chair and extended his hand. Somewhat similar to the way he'd accepted Red's hand when they'd met and teamed up, Liz shook without hesitation, as if she'd seen it coming or considered the initiative herself.

Without another glance in the direction of their follower, Liz slipped a twenty under her cup of coffee, watched Dembe limp away and spun. Operating on the assumption that the guard was going to tail her irrespective of her target, she slowed imperceptibly when passing the little pathways people paved between apartment buildings. They opened into another street, just as wide and populated as the one parallel to it.

Out of nothing short of impatience, Liz deemed waiting for the line of apartment blocks to end inapplicable. No time ought to be wasted in situations predisposed to instantaneous shifts in power.

She forced herself to take unsure steps, as though she had no idea where she was going, and pulled her phone out. Dialing a random number, just slowly enough to make it seem real, she stopped for less than a second at the opening of each path and examined. Liz then asked for instructions into the phone in case he'd gotten worrying close, worryingly fast.

Picking a path at random, she turned the corner. Her eyes slipped to the side for long enough to catch that the sentry was still on her: strutting casually, hardly gazing in her direction, but never unaware of her position. Walking in what was everything but a straight line, she continued speaking about not knowing he route she was supposed to take. In the silence of a narrow, bilaterally walled street, her voice echoed. Thus, now that she was certain he could hear, she smirked and talked to the imaginary second party about how few people actually came to the place she was invited; losing his interest would've taken her at least a few steps backwards.

She repeated the movement when she reached the end of the alleyway, peaking at the other side and spotting the familiar figure of a guard dressed inappropriately; which worked to her advantage, really. Given his attire was limited to a shirt and jeans, he couldn't be carrying a shotgun. She took a hesitant left and stopped a few feet from the corner of the building.

Liz based her entire plan on him looking right first when he exited the corridor to make sure she hadn't somehow fooled him. She pulled her pistol out and tucked it between her back and the wall. Heavy breaths were a thing of the past. She struggled to shut out the noises of the crowd and slid her finger on the trigger.

The guard traveled the same distance as the woman he knew more as Agent Keen than Lizzie, despite the ridiculous amount of time he'd spent protecting Reddington from predators. One step past the corner, he glanced right. When his head moved to the left, he heard the click before he saw the gun, metal under tension at his forehead.

Surrounded by hundreds of people, Agent Keen held a .45 to his head and motioned with her free hand for his weapon. He thought he'd pull it out as opposed to surrendering and test her courage till the end, but her look held no doubt. If he didn't comply, he died.

"Give it," she urged.

Carefully, he reached at his own waist and pulled the gun out. Nobody reacted. People passed them by and stayed silent; passed _two guns _by and stayed silent. Liz heard a few gasps from the brave bunch of the audience when she grabbed his weapon and tucked it at her back.

"Come on," she said. "You're gonna see what it's like to ride in a Mercedes."

* * *

The wall Liz and Red had used as support for Tom-related material had been wiped clean, so their own little black site was as good as abandoned. But with unlimited access to the room and in need for a space to interrogate the newly captured sentry, Liz put it back into function.

She'd locked the door behind her, the guard noticed, and felt perfectly comfortable working on her gun with her back turned – tore it apart and put it back together a million times just to buy time.

Liz turned to check his binds, gun secure in her right hand, finger only brushing the trigger with no peaceful intention. His hands weren't tied together, but individually, each roped to a bar of the back of his metal chair. He'd stopped feeling his fingers altogether a few minutes before for lack of blood circulation and thought his ankles might explode, straining hard against metal and cable.

She sat down on the same kind of chair, but crossed her legs and placed her hands on her lap, shifting around more than necessary. He scoffed. She kept from smiling.

"Tell me your name," Liz started. "Tell me what to call you."

"Frank," he replied. If he was going to get slapped across the face or shot in the foot, it wasn't going to be over a name.

"No professional last name basis for us, then?" She nodded. "Alright, Frank."

"And I call you Liz?"

Anything to draw it out, really, and not get asked about Reddington.

"Who's looking into it?" she asked and leaned backwards.

"We are."

"Talked to Dembe?"

"How else would we look into it?"

"What do you know so far?"

He'd have wanted to bend forward for effect, but the ties held him back.

"Don't worry about it." Frank punctuated every word. "It's under control."

Liz smiled knowingly, set her gun down at the foot of her chair and nodded to herself. Her eyes stayed down until she felt prepared. Her drive overpowered her morals for the first time in a long time like she'd always imagined happened to criminals before they killed their first.

She cut off his last syllable, jumping from her chair and towards his, with her right hand in front of her body. She clutched at his jaw but slid the first two fingers an inch lower. It stopped his breathing and widened his eyes, pulling the front legs of the chair upwards. Her left hand went to the back of his neck and she stepped to the side, supporting his body by his throat, pushing it into the back legs of the seat. He hovered between upright and horizontal, hardly breathing and worried for his life.

"I get that you're part of the machine, Frank, but there's still a _you_. You wouldn't like to die, judging by how hard you're fighting, so tell me what your bosses have so far or they'll be one man short in two hours, tops."

Air battled to get in and out of his lungs.

"I need a yes, Frank!"

She loosened her grip to allow him a curt nod and released him. Frank's head shot forward, almost hitting his chest as he used his mouth to inhale the way his nose couldn't.

Liz settled back in her seat with the .45 back in her lap. Regular would've been an erroneous description of his breathing, but he could finally look her in the eye and straighten his back, soon-to-be bruised under the pressure of cold metal.

"Is this a superiority complex? Thinking you can hunt better than Red's people?" His words came out in sharp grunts, unnatural and annoyed.

"Who _are_ these people?"

Frank laughed with as much power as he had left. "I can't –"

She interrupted him in the most monotone of voice, spitting out facts he must have already known. "I know Red has some sort of disappearance clause, in which business goes as before in the event of him missing for a while. His people aren't paid to be loyal, they're paid for odd jobs – a few days of work here and there, never anything that ties them to him in any way. Nobody would want to find him except someone who's either above him or works directly with him. Which one is it?"

Liz processed her one train of thought only after she'd stopped talking – Red's people must have been on par with Red, even Berlin, rather than mere employees at his service.

"Trust me, _Liz_." Now his lungs allowed more complex sentences. "They want to find him more than you do."

_Unlikely. _"Why?"

"He's needed alive."

"Yeah, he's needed alive, tell me what to look for!"

Frank shook his head. Frank smiled. Frank was absolutely convinced her former position in the Bureau and the way she'd been raised – on absurdly strict moral values and the cult built around being part of the solution as opposed to the problem – would prevent her from launching forward again.

No battles cries announced her surge towards him. Frank felt the blow before he registered the sound of metal screeching against the floor as she rose. She slammed the pistol against his left cheek, and then his right, and the side of his jaw so that he lost all balance and tumbled to the floor, bringing the chair down with him. Drooling and spitting blood in a pool in front of his face, he coughed his lungs out until they could take no more and calmed.

Liz pulled up by the collar and slid the chair all the way against a wall to pin him there.

"What's these people's business with him?" she asked, panting hard.

"I have no fucking clue…" Barely speaking now.

"Do you have family, Frank?" she asked. Conversation helped to put a damper on her urge to shoot him between the eyes.

Unwillingly, like he'd been taught not to do by none other than Raymond Reddington, he stared her down. Through an obstructed throat, he managed no verbal reaction.

"Yeah, I'd figured," she mumbled.

Liz stepped away from Frank and turned her back, pulling out her phone to snap a quick picture of her prey to send to Ressler. He'd ask about the broken nose and black eye and cheekbone bruises but she'd justify all of it later as self-defense. When she turned away again and typed away at the phone, Frank's voice disturbed the silence, as clearly as possible, considering.

"We got no call for ransom."

She glanced at Frank over her shoulder before adjusting her body to face him and saw a broken, bruised and battered man who held his chin down and to the side, praying silently to whatever God he believed in that Red's mental partner would spare him, who couldn't speak if his life depended on it. But he repeated himself as a means of precaution.

"We got no call for ransom so far. Whoever got him has personal crap to sort out with him."

Liz approached him again to show she hadn't sent the picture and make him grateful. As long as he kept talking, her phone would rest in limbo and whatever family he had wouldn't be involved.

"Like what?"

"How would I fucking know?" he grunted out. With every consonant he spit out more blood.

It sent a rush of disappointment through all of her joints and drained her. If she didn't get bull's eye with her questions on first try, she'd be left with no energy to waddle through all she had to inquire.

"Who's he got unfinished business with?"

"Lot of people," he blurted out. The barrel of her gun found his cheek again. This time around, something cracked. Frank's face came back into view with an oblique cut right below his eye. He winced.

"Give me something!" she yelled out, too close for comfort. If she wanted to hit him again, she could easily gain momentum from the side and he wouldn't see it coming.

"I don't know, for the love of Christ! You wanna go the Berlin route, that's your problem, but it's not him – it can't be him."

"What were you hired for?"

"What?"

"If you work for them full-time, you know a little something about how Reddington does business – how every successful entrepreneur does business: anonymously."

"I don't have to work for them to –"

"There are exceptions. If someone took him and isn't demanding money, he involved himself with someone directly and I need to narrow it down. I can't do anything like this."

"Fuck no, you can't."

Frank saw the pistol coming and recoiled, but it stopped at his temple. She didn't need to threaten any further than moving a hand over the pocket that contained the phone.

"He's worth a lot of cash – Reddington!" he screamed; got it all out like the words would expire or she wouldn't be patient enough to hear him out. The hand removed itself from the phone and rested on his shoulder to keep him in place, unmovable from the gun.

"Whoever took him might not give him back."

With her eyes closed, she pulled both hands away from his face and felt a wave of hot air on the inside of her wrist; he hadn't even dared to breathe right.

Liz brought her chair in front of his and settled in the same position as when she'd first brought him in. Whether she'd meant to or not, she pulled the conversation towards closure.

"Do you have to report back on me?"

"Yeah…" he said and spit out the blood that prevented him from taking that noise all the way to 'yes.'

"What are you gonna say?"

He'd had no time to debate that question with himself, not when made to believe death was less than an hour away from him. So he took his time.

"That I lost you."

Liz nodded her approval. .45 still in hand, she bent over to undo all of his binds, lingering on each one to gather strength to straighten again. Even if he wanted to fight, he couldn't. His limbs dangled – completely limp – as did his head.

Tucking her gun back at her back, she walked to get the cloth she'd used a while before.

"Get up," she said and motioned.

The black cloth acted as a blindfold as Liz transported Frank to the Mercedes. She'd drop him off a few blocks from where she'd met with Dembe, and he'd find a way back to Reddington's mansion from there. He'd ask the doctors to please fix his face up if they don't want him to bleed to death out of his nose and make more of a mess than he'd already caused; or rather, than Liz had caused. Dembe would see Frank, even if the latter entered through the back door, and hopefully he'd rest assured that she aimed for progress at most any price.

And then she'd go to a hotel and crash in a bed and close her eyes and push Red out of her head until her brain finished recharging and shifting the Mercedes into gear wasn't a difficult task anymore.

* * *

Following an erratic voice mail à la Ressler, Liz put the hotel plan on hold and drove to the post office. Frank was properly taken care of before the drop-off – she bandaged his nose, since he'd moved it back into place himself, tapped his wounds with alcohol and water to clean them up and made sure no more blood was flowing out of any orifice. She'd cleaned her gun back to shiny grey and scrubbed Frank's blood off of her hands.

This time around, when she advanced towards the gateway with no intention of stopping to present the guards with ID, no one stopped her.

Aram greeted Liz with a self-explanatory smile. _I'm glad you're back, but I fear for my job_.

She responded but her mouth fell back straight as she pushed into the door of Ressler's office – a room previously designed to house Cooper while on the job.

"It couldn't wait half an hour?" she said and claimed her place in the chair Red had used before their allegiance had been set up and denied Cooper the right to speak to her alone.

"You were the one in a rush," he said and rose from his seat to get the files ready for Liz. They'd kept records of all the failed attempts at making the dealer talk in hope that going through them with rested eyes would uncover details invisible at first sight.

"What do you need?"

He slapped the files on the desk in front of Liz but stopped her before she proceeded.

"What've you got?"

When the order of business evidently confused her, Ressler said, "Start at the top."

She considered multitasking, but the file got dropped on the desk for the time being.

"Not a ransom kidnapping."

"Did they call to tell you that?"

She rolled her eyes, but out of Ressler's sight. He settled with his back against the door.

"If you're gonna doubt my sources, this isn't gonna work." Nowhere near convincing enough, but Ressler shut up. Liz continued. "Now, we can wait and hope whoever took him brings him back unharmed or we… consider Red might be worth too much to return."

"You're thinking trafficking?"

_I wasn't before that asshole Frank told me but_, "Yeah, I am."

"In which case…"

"It'd be useful to know who has him."

"Looking into sellers and buyers can't do that much good. The ones we keep tabs on are too many and the good ones – we don't know."

"We have to find something on the mercenaries. The guys who picked up Red are specialists – we bring the driver in, he tells us who to go to –"

"Driver?"

"The driver of the Jeep handled Red personally, while the others watched his back and took care of Dembe – that wasn't coincidental. The driver's the one in charge and it'd be stupid to let the others know why they were doing the job; _except _for the man on the throne."

"So we're making a list of people you can hire when you want to pick up a man like Reddington?"

Liz nodded. "Five or more in the group, at least one of whom is black."

"Then what? Even if we find them…"

"I go to ask them a few questions, get intel on who hired them to get Red. And why in the world they weren't more careful."

Ressler snorted. "More careful? We can't find them – they tried hard enough."

"Nobody abducts Red in broad daylight. Even if we don't find him and he escapes on his own, do they just trust he won't go after them?"

Dropping the suspicion that this might not be the simplest of abductions, Ressler asked, "What else?" which caught Liz unawares. While the task force leader was more than doubtful that any new information could be derived from knowledge of there being more than met the eye, Liz had the tendency of dwelling on that suspicion.

She thought hard – kept Ressler waiting, but whom had contemplation ever helped?

"That's all I've got."

"Why is Reddington alone in this? Does he pay his people to slack off when he's gone?"

_Depends on the people_. "They don't need him. He's arranged that everything go smoothly – even without him around."

"They know more about Reddington's associations than we ever could. Involve them."

Liz shook her head before Ressler finished his line. "I'm not wasting time on the people."

"_Interrogate _them." Little by little, the desperation in Ressler's speech far outweighed the professionalism; got Liz wondering if it was anxiety to move on to the case of his career and disallow Red from being any bigger a part of his life as he was already or _big ole chief of the task force _aching for resolution of the crime novel that was the story of him and Raymond Reddington.

"They only trust the man who pays them," Liz clarified, but it wasn't enough.

"So pay them," he said and shrugged.

"What? Ten bucks per piece of information? Anyone who isn't Red is a stranger."

With that, Liz stood and traveled over to Aram, who would have to put off compiling reports and burying himself in paperwork for looking for teams of mercenaries, capturers and freelancers proficient enough to have taken Red – similar to The Wild Bunch, maybe, but even they would've proceeded at night time.

"And we wait?" Ressler asked when Liz returned and slumped back in the chair, pulling the file down with her.

She sighed and said, "And we wait."

He breathed in and out as deeply as she had and commenced the introduction of the director case, formally more important than Red's disappearance.

"Gossip travels in and out of the Bureau every day – dismissed, but never ignored. Last month, one of our sources informed us that there was an impending attack on the director – some agent who craved that particular position and believed in making it happen for himself."

"Do you trust your source?"

A more blunt phrasing and Ressler would've felt offended. "Yes. Yeah, I do."

"Alright."

"We know a drug dealer who overheard a conversation between the two parties and thinks it's legit. He just shared that with the wrong person, who came to us."

"Where'd he overhear?" 'Overhearing' was vague, as well, and never to be taken literally.

"Don't know. But he mentioned payment, which means it's already set in motion. Which means we're already running late."

"Whoever wants that position isn't more than a step below it right now. I can't see some random agent hoping to get promoted to director."

"That's what we thought, but there's nothing in their histories." Ressler caught himself mid-thought. "We found nothing in what we could search."

"There are things you don't have access to? Aren't you FBI?"

"They're deputy directors, assistant directors; and they're above me. If we intrude, they'll all protect themselves – guilty or not, because it's their right."

Liz paused. "And if they know we're on to them, they'll have all the time in the world to get rid of anything we might consider evidence."

"Which they do very well. They've been there."

"What have you tried with the dealer?"

Don wasn't a fan of revealing his practices, but he found a way to put it subtly. "Enough to know he doesn't enjoy two-sided discussions."

"Give me some time with him."

When she heard Ressler's sly laugh, she piled on. "Not on the premises."

He looked up at her, eyebrows raised. She asked, "You have him detained, right?"

"Yeah, we do – and he's not leaving."

"Do you really want me here more than necessary?" Liz's comments slipped into derisive before she could stop them, but she regretted none of it. "The whole 'I'll take care of the cameras' doesn't work forever – you know that."

"Keen, you're suggesting letting a prisoner out of his cell for you –"

"_My _what? This is your case. I'm trying to help you keep your job, and the task force. If we don't push on, Cooper's gonna wake up to nothing. Or worse for you – your position in the Bureau will end up redundant."

"I've tried everything you're thinking of –"

"Send someone along, come with me, wire me, I don't care! Just let me…"

Ressler almost nodded – for lack of energy to fight her or because he knew he'd eventually have to accept she wanted to have a go at questioning his only witness, but his hesitation gave Liz room to change the topic herself.

"Do you know what we can and can't do with the feds?"

"There's a fine line."

"We need… time with them."

"Them too?"

"Do you wanna establish which one's the most likely to want the position by looking at their pictures? 'Cause we can do that, we've got all the time in the –"

"Alright, okay."

"Give me profiles you have on all of them – back story, complete with anything off-the-record you can find. Aram knows to look for the people who could've taken him, but check the traffickers you have."

"I can do no more checking than to see when they last sold or bought anything."

"You've got informants. If not, find one you like and we'll convert them. Then you'll have them ask around for sellers looking for eager buyers."

"Keen, if it's the likes of Berlin, he won't be public in seeking a buyer. And no informant knows how to find these people."

Liz headed for the door, clinging to the doorknob and the knowledge that the clumsiness of the incident implied Berlin had nothing to do with it, and nor did businessmen with as rich a reputation.

For the sake of Ressler's mental wellbeing, however, she entertained the possibility. "If it was Berlin, there's nothing you and I can do about it. If it was Berlin, Dembe wouldn't still be alive. It's not him." Liz opened the door. "Leave Berlin out of it and we can focus on what's probable."

Ressler had stepped away from the doorway. He stood right next to the chair, grabbing the files he'd given to Liz and sitting down with every intention to examine them again – more thoroughly if possible.

"Get the dealer ready – an hour."

Ressler didn't confirm, but he didn't need to.

* * *

"Why is no one with you?" was the first thing Liz asked when Dembe sat down. She'd picked another café, but somewhere crowded nonetheless. Dembe now walked with more conviction, but just as much concern his stitched could burst at any time. He found it in himself to smile despite her question.

"You scared them off." He smelled the aftermath of rain and decided he deserved a break from worrying; which Liz agreed with – stayed completely silent until he opened his eyes again and said, "I don't know what you did, but he didn't mention it when he arrived back."

"Do you know what he reported?"

"Said you got away."

For a moment only, Liz's eyes glinted with hope. "To whom?"

"Don't know."

The glimmer faded. She gestured it didn't matter and relaxed.

"None of Reddington's crew want to help."

"No wonder – not their problem; they still have jobs."

Looking straight at Dembe, Liz made an attempt at acceptance. When it was visibly hopeless, she said, "I thought he worked alone."

Dembe had come prepared to reassure. "He does. In everything he's ever done, I've never heard of these people being involved. Raymond did all it took for an operation to succeed."

"I was told they wanted him alive more than I did. Why? What kind of… relationship could be between two parties who are almost never in contact but look out for each other in times like this?"

"A truce," Dembe said. Liz examined all implications that came to mind, but didn't get to voice them. Dembe's voice came through to her again.

"He must have thought there would come a time when he wouldn't be able to do it alone… SO keeping a… company around must've seemed like a good choice."

"With the truce coming from where?"

"Raymond could have something on them. He's done this before – arranged for information to be divulged in the event of his death."

The fact that this information was as useless as Ressler had thought it'd be took nothing away from the shock that hit along with the revelation of how little she knew about Reddington; how little his own – i.e. Dembe – knew about Reddington.

_That doesn't help me for shit but, _"You were right. If we leave this to them, ninety per cent chance we'll get him back."

"What if they got him? What if the truce is over? Maybe they got pissed."

Liz closed her eyes and shook the idea away. Not unlike the Berlin scenario, if they'd gotten pissed and taken Red, there was nothing she could do about it.

"What is this company?" And then, because she'd put it wrongly, "Who could it be?"

"I'll look back. All information Reddington has and any arrangements… I'll hunt them down."

Liz smiled. Dembe saw she had no answer.

"What now?" he asked.

"I don't know. I'm looking into it – hoping for news." She eyed the remnants of what had been gunshot wounds and asked, "How are you?"

"Very little pain. I'm okay."

"Good," she replied. "Think you're fit for a drive in about an hour?"

* * *

When Dembe pulled up in front of the black site Ressler used as a prison for cons he still needed for interrogation, he fund an Escalade already parked out front, blocking the gateway. Only the windshield wasn't tinted, so the driver remained anonymous until he left the driver's seat to meet Liz halfway. Ressler should've at least offered to shake her hand, Dembe thought, but the man only changed his position enough to show Liz her requirement sat quietly in the back seat.

Dembe saw Ressler's lips move, followed by Liz shaking her head definitively. That forced special agent Ressler into a confused hiatus of about ten seconds while Liz spoke of her intentions and pointed towards the Mercedes. Ressler glanced his way and Dembe struggled not to wiggle his brows.

Liz's protests continued, but they weren't characteristically curt and angered. She seemed to be speaking eloquently, like someone who knew they were a few steps away from calling 'check mate.' She finished it off with a pitying smile Dembe hadn't known she could pull off and let Ressler take a second. When he backed away, she opened the right back door and pulled out a man dressed in an old, battered shirt and pants that didn't quite fit him. As wonderfully clean silver accessories, he worse a pair of handcuffs which held his hands trapped behind his back.

Recognizing his queue, Dembe stepped out of the car and into the back without glancing at Ressler, who couldn't go without glaring at Red's aide.

Liz guided the dealer in the back, next to Dembe, and climbed behind the wheel with forced thanks aimed at Ressler, who hardly even acknowledged her. He tried to catch one last look at his prisoner like it was precious – a prized possession – but Liz took off with him. Took off having promised to give him back and proven that nothing as small as a promise made in times of distress mattered more than finding Red.

* * *

When Nolan Wells – better known by Liz and Dembe as the dealer – was shoved into what he deemed a small-scale black site, he landed in a puddle of half-dried blood. With his hands now tucked together behind his back, Wells used his legs to find balance.

He gasped as if a few stains of blood on his face prevented him from breathing properly and hauled himself into a sitting position after what seemed like endless trying. Wells's eyes roamed around the room but spotted nothing of importance; except, maybe, for the couple of teeth on the floor. An insight into previous instances of interrogation witnessed by the grey walls, far from subtle, a rotten pink.

He'd expected to see Liz – of whose name he was still unaware – with her back turned, loading her weapon and preparing to attack in slow strokes, but she hadn't moved from the door. Dembe patted her shoulder and gave a forced smile; brushed past her and walked out.

The room looked like it'd housed more than it did now – with a completely bare desk and a horribly-maintained whiteboard, it rather presented itself as a torture chamber, formerly used as a strategy room.

"You know what I want. We don't have to drag this out."

Like dear, wonderful Frank, the dealer couldn't help laughing. Albeit short-lived, it stirring up anger Liz had promised wouldn't interfere with the questioning.

"Okay…" she whispered and reached out to pull him up. Liz dragged him by the collar, all the way across the room. She sat down and backed the dealer between her knees, twisting his arm up and backwards so that his wrist almost touched his hairline. He screamed like he was dying.

Liz cringed, but he couldn't see. If he had time, the dealer would've imagined black eyes and spikes and red horns in lieu of her face.

"Ressler's been playing!" she yelled over him and eased the pressure so he'd quiet down. When the screeches turned to muffled cries, she said, "Tell me a name."

"I can't!"

"A face feature, the color of their skin."

He coughed out in response. Liz pulled on the arm again and flexed. "Give me something!"

"Or what?" She squeezed again but he'd gotten used to the pain. It stung like hell, but he had less trouble breathing now. "What're you gonna do that they haven't done already?"

The dealer couldn't tell she squeezed her eyes shut and restrained from swearing at the top of her lungs, but he felt her grip at the back of his head and her right leg at his ass, kicking his upwards. She needed little to no effort to push him up against the opposite wall, fingers tight right below the man's jaw line. He breathed ruggedly but he managed, until he didn't. Liz's eyes held him together as her hands worked to pull the air out of his lungs and keep it out.

"Careful," she mouthed. His eyes stayed fixated on hers, but he distinguished the movement of her lips as a word. Oblivious as to what he'd done carelessly, he nodded as much as her hand allowed.

"Give me a name."

The dealer's eyes gouged out of their sockets, his mouth stayed as wide open as could go and his wrists struggled against his back binds. If she didn't kill him, helplessness would.

"Better now than later!" She released him without regard to his lack of strength. Wells drop to the floor into a pile of meat and bones, dry-heaving and wheezing. By comparison to hers, the dealer's skin was a million shades of blue and purple.

It took a couple of seconds to return to normal, which Wells did naturally – allowed his lungs to readapt, closing his eyes and thinking happy thoughts of money, drugs and whores. He'd worked to bring himself back too many times since the break of dawn, but no attempts had been finalized with the sight of the big black wolf busting the door open and pushing his daughter inside.

The little girl stared her father down lower than he was, crying and trembling from the knowledge that _the beast _was still behind, ready to drag her back by the shoulders if she decided to run again. She tried to whisper 'help' to poor, wounded daddy, but the tape across her mouth kept everything from reaching Wells.

"I'm gonna fucking –"

Wells's scream was cut short by Liz's knee, coming in contact with his nose before Dembe had the chance to hear the rest of the threat. Certain he'd get himself up and make a run for his girl, Liz reckoned physical action would have done nothing but delay his attacks. Looking away from the kid at all times, she raised her weapon and thumbed the safety off.

Dembe's arms didn't relax, adjacent to his body until otherwise needed.

"No, no, no…"

Wells spoke lowly, focused only on keeping the bullet in the gun and dared raise himself only to kneeling position, looking up at Liz from beneath his eyebrows, too thick to benefit him now.

"I don't have a name!" he yelled, which she could've guessed herself.

"Not the guy you sold to – an intermediary. Someone who worked with both of you."

"I got no one."

The little girl couldn't keep from sobbing.

"Whom did you hear? Where? When?"

The crying didn't stop.

"I… oh, God."

"Get her out," Liz said, and Dembe obliged. He touched her no more than to guide her outside, but Wells glared all the same. Impulse drove him to stand and make for the door, which earned him a slap around the face with the barrel of Liz's .45.

"They're not going anywhere. You're talking to me!"

"We were…" his voice trembled, enough that she only understood half of what he said. "I was working with this dude who wanted to buy shit for his boss –"

"What stuff?" The gun moved over to his head.

"Fucking… coke, why does it matter?"

"Cheap."

"Well, he ain't gonna buy something expensive as hell and get noticed, you –"

She cocked the gun and raised an eyebrow. "Okay, okay," he said. "This guy – _intermediary_ – carried around a phone I snatched when the transaction was done."

"Why?"

"The fuck do you mean why? You find shit on these guys' phones, you make them pay to get everything back; I needed the money."

Liz nodded fast to stop his explanation. "Okay, okay. What'd you find?"

"A recording. A conversation between this guy's… boss or associate or something talking to a guy saying he's _FBI_." Extra emphasis on FBI, just to make his hatred evident.

"Saying what?"

"What you know from your buddy _Ressler_." Annoyed by now, anxious to see his daughter's face again, eager to free himself from his ties, Frank pushed to the nearest wall to reach for some support. Liz's hand followed him. "This fed telling the other guy he needed somebody to carry the job out. Fuck that, he needed a hit man."

"Did he say what for?"

"Yes!"

"Did they give a time? When did they need it done?"

"Don't know. He needed someone 'soon.'"

"What else?"

"Short conversation," he said. The curter his answers, the faster he'd be out of that hole in the ground she probably called a room. "Need a hit man, director won't quit. _Well, I may be able to fix something up_. Need it fast, man. _Fast as can get. _When is –"

"Wait." She tightened her grip on the weapon and approached him as a reminder this was anything but a friendly chat. "Do you remember their voices?"

Apprehensiveness washed over him so fast it was imperceptible.

"Can you recognize either of them by voice?"

"I don't –"

"I'll call Dembe back in and I swear –"

"I can try, fine!" He paused to breathe; watched her relax. "I'll try."

After she nodded, Liz looked like she'd come out of a trance. Once she'd dragged her own weight to a table she'd brought in long before Wells, the gun was dropped to rest on the wood, touching the wall – as far from Wells's possible reach as she could push it. Her knees gave out before she could step away and the corner of the table scratched a line into her arm as she tumbled to the ground. Liz brought a hand up to run over her face without caring for the make-up, puffing out air whenever she got a chance, wasting no energy with flexing muscles.

"Good," she said, a delayed response to the man looking at her now with eyes terrified but knowing. _Progress, girl, props_, he thought,_ but you won't be sleeping for days._

* * *

"Somebody's got him."

"What?"

With Dembe and Wells in the back of her car, Liz was cruising to where Ressler had been keeping the dealer prisoner when Don himself had called. She'd assumed he was calling to prompt her arrival, so she'd spat out excuses as to why they were going to run late, but his interruption had come an octave above his usual tone: "Somebody's got him."

Liz's eyes shifted from the rearview mirror – and the reflection of Dembe's face – and the road ahead. At least five people in traffic got a good brush-up by a black Mercedes coming through.

"One of our guys told Aram someone's trying to sell him."

"Who's someone?"

Dembe caught a glimpse of her dashboard; his heart rate picked up when his gaze landed on the speed.

"A trafficker Reddington's worked with before. Last time we checked, the two were friendly, but I guess not." Liz could have sworn she'd heard a smile in his voice.

"How much?"

"Don't know. My guy tried to get it out of the seller, but he wouldn't budge. The money we offered we too little, so he said Reddington's already been reserved."

"How much did you put forward?"

"Ten."

"For Christ's sake, ten what? Ten pats on the back if he agreed to –"

"Keen, he wouldn't take ten million!" Dembe must've heard that, too. "Either he _is _already taken or he doesn't wanna deal with people who have the nerve to _only _offer ten million."

"So? You have people – send another one over, have them give the guy however much he wants."

"I can't keep sending people in."

"What?" Driving now like it was second nature, she couldn't have told you how her right still had the momentum to change gears; or with what power her left turned the wheel. Dembe had tensed completely in the back seat, coming in contact with Wells's shoulder every now and again, which prevented the dealer from keeping calm in a car already rocked by worry and sharp maneuvers.

"The guy I sent now was threatened," Ressler said. "When he pushed on, he got attacked. He said he didn't know how he even got out of there alive, so I either find out who's already called dibs on Red and go after that guy, or I send someone else in and get them killed."

"What kind of people works for you? Who trained them?"

"They're strategists – _informants_ – not soldiers. And _nobody _dies while I try to find Red for you."

Dembe and Wells were sent flying into the left door of the Benz as Liz pulled over. The dealer kissed Liz's headrest like he meant it when she pulled the handbrake.

"For me? I told you he's yours when we get him back."

Dembe's eyes flew up to the rearview mirror again, but Liz knew better than to look back. She assumed she had enough time to explain after hanging up.

"I want him, Keen, I do," he said, more surrendering now than determined. "But I can't kill people on a job I'm not even supposed to be doing. If someone dies doing this, I'm gonna have to answer for it. And when it turns out they weren't out helping with the director case, but with some heroic quest nobody's given orders to do, they're gonna disband the task force and there will be no resources left for you to use." Pleased she hadn't interrupted him by now, he pushed his luck. "Just… wait. We know he's alive, I can see who's supposed to buy him."

"_Wait_…" she mused. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have –"

"What? Wouldn't have come to me? I found him, Keen. Now we take a break."

Liz nodded, but Dembe recognized there was no acceptance in her expression.

"The dealer can ID the fed by voice. Make him listen to every assistant director the Bureau has, and then go down every level. He'll come up."

"How did you –"

"We all care about something. He'll ID the fed. You can go suck up to your superiors and make yourself feel better. Maybe they'll give you a medal at the end for saving the director's life, who knows?" Ressler's breath came through the phone – deep and long like he wanted to begin a monologue, but Liz finished the call and threw the phone on the passenger seat.

Wells was damn near tears. Dembe was impatient.

"He's alive. Someone's trying to sell him." And then her eyes drifted back to the rearview mirror. "This isn't his men, it can't be."

"No way of knowing. Any documented deals he might've made, I can't get access to."

"So this could be some nobody who's –"

"Let's take him back," Dembe said and nodded to Wells.

Liz accelerated without sliding the car in gear. The engine roared so loudly Wells jumped and kept his eyes shut as he muttered 'shit' under his breath. She controlled her language but almost ripped the shifter out when she engaged first gear; dropped the handbrake, put her foot down and reentered traffic.

* * *

When Liz sat Dembe down to tell him about her trip to the post office and her deal with Ressler, there was no more restraint. She went through it in detail – why they also had to work on this movie-like director case in which a submissive party's jealousy drives them to murder and why Ressler had decided to drop out of the investigation. But before the novel-length story, she scanned the area for eventual intruders. Dembe noticed there were none at the same time, but didn't dare begin a conversation with no possible conclusion.

"So, now…" he said instead.

"He's probably got eyes on the seller already – wants to find out who's supposed to buy him and then trade with that guy."

"Can he keep the eyes there?"

"No, and he knows that!" Dembe couldn't remember a time when he didn't jump as Liz's snap. Always unpredictable and in the middle of a calm conversation, her voice leapt off the chain. She looked somewhere over his shoulder and continued. "He knows he's got even less of a chance with the buyer than he does with the seller, and he's still trying to feed me this 'I can't let anyone die on my watch' crap. If he waits now, he knows I _won't_ and that I'll go to people I know who are so far outside of the law they can't even see the line between legal and illegal."

"Which will…" Dembe tried, "bring Reddington back?"

"Which will prove to him that I've… gone over to the dark side. I don't know what he thinks I've done, give me a break."

"Okay," he said. With the help of a mild smile, he made an attempt at levity. "So, now…?"

She returned the smile, but sadly. It vanished as quickly as it'd appeared.

"I have a guy," she said.

"You have a guy?"

"I don't _have _a guy. I know a guy."

"Alright."

"He could send someone over to the seller and offer however much it takes to get Red back. And if that doesn't work, go hard on the seller until we're the best choice for buyers."

"Do you just happen to have that kind of money?"

"We can get it," she said and shrugged.

"_We _can?"

"Yes. Can't talk to that housewife alone so… _we_."

The one woman who literally made money in her basement specifically for Reddington filled Dembe's head. He saw Liz bust in without need of any help and thought her tough. So he allowed himself to say, "Liz, come on," which didn't go unnoticed.

Her smile held amusement and some sort of contentment she hadn't expected to derive from Dembe. The sound of Elizabeth in his voice was rendered moot. Even Keen would've drilled a hole in her brain; especially Keen. Liz was good. Liz was natural.

"All I need is for you to be there, so I don't waste time explaining how I'm there for Red. I pick up however much I need after Carter tells me what it'll be and we're off, no damage done."

"Oh, the guy has a name."

Freudian slip, but hell. She nodded. "I've worked with him before, but this is… I've heard he can do this kind of stuff, I haven't gone through it myself."

"What have you worked on with this… Carter?" he tried – tentative and hopeful, but futile.

Liz laughed and shook her head, then looked him dead in the eye. "Uh-uh."

Hope turned to acceptance as his shoulders sagged. "Go ahead," he said. "Call Carter."

* * *

After Liz had calmed herself down, she'd called Ressler back and related the events of her meeting with the dealer, bit by bit, leaving certain details out on the assumption that none of the FBI knew about Wells's daughter. She'd described her efforts as powerful enough to break a man afraid solely of being disposed of after his release from custody. If this fed had the balls to go after the director, he'd have no qualms about hunting down an expired drug dealer.

"I know that," he's retorted.

"I exploited that," she'd said.

"Still need the profiles?"

"Now that we've got voice recognition, no," she'd ended.

"So what happens now… with Reddington?" Aram asked from his desk, keeping his eyes on the monitor and his fingers on the keys. Ressler looked up from the ground and leaned back in his seat, a couple of feet away from the hard-at-work computer whiz. A man like him had never been more useful than now that they had to search every data base the internet held to find voice recordings of at least a hundred people.

"I'm keeping tabs on the seller, see who Red goes to."

"And then?"

"We… negotiate. This guy's obviously got someone he wants to trade with, but –"

"Or he's demanding a ridiculous amount of money and laughed in the face of the man who only had ten million to give."

"Better for us."

Dembe contemplated. "We're going to buy Reddington back, then?"

_It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that_, "Yeah, we are."

* * *

"Please tell me she's okay."

"Everyone's fine," Ressler said. He'd sat Wells down on a chair next to Aram's desk and used four pairs of handcuffs to tie the two together.

"Who's fine?" Aram asked through continuous and arguably obnoxious typing.

If Ressler had worded the meaning of his gesture, he would've said, "Who cares?"

"How many so far?" he asked instead.

"Ten," Aram said. His eyes diverted from the screen to a piece of paper and then back to the screen. He'd written down the names of ten FBI employees directly below the boss whose voices of which he could find snippets.

"Out of…?"

"Fifty four."

With a hand working at his forehead, Ressler tried ignoring Wells's pleas to 'keep her safe, keep her safe.' He repeated 'yeah, sure; yeah, alright' in the hopes it'd shut up the dealer.

"Okay, two more down," Aram said.

"I want to talk to her," Wells intervened.

Ressler massaged his own temples. "Later."

"I ain't telling you shit until I talk to my daughter!"

When Aram's gaze burned too intensely, Ressler raised his head and asked, "Why wouldn't she be safe? She's fine."

"Fuck do you mean, she –"

With another word spewed out, Wells would've been off the floor and onto Ressler, but Don lunged forward to keep him down in contact with the ground, using both hands to stabilize the dealer by the shoulders.

"She's fine," he assured.

Through ragged breaths and grunts, Wells managed, "You used her to get shit out of me, but I'm not gonna –"

"Who did?"

Wells mocked Ressler's apparent lack of knowledge with raspy laughter, but when Ressler's brows furrowed together, he gradually discarded the attitude. From behind and out of nowhere, Aram halted his typing to bring his colleague out of the trance with, "We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her."

"She tortured a little girl?" he asked and pushed Wells so far back, he collided with another desk. There were gasps and hands raised to wide-open mouths, but Ressler paid no attention. He only considered the other thirty people in the room when Wells spoke again.

"I don't know!" he yelled. "Be more careful with the people you sell your inmates out to next –"

Like a fighter in position – minus the footwork – Ressler gathered momentum and punched the dealer down to the floor. The back of the chair cut into his skin like it'd been sharpened as the sound of the fall brought the whole mass of FBI employees to their feet.

Aram came at Ressler's side before the latter could deliver another hit as reassurance that talking wouldn't end well for Wells. Word of what they'd witnessed wouldn't exit the room if any of them wanted to keep their jobs for more than a few days, but Aram felt it necessary to specify that "He needed to be… subdued."

Ressler's eyes moved from one agent to the other, despising the general expression of shock more and more by the second. Then he bent down to Wells, who flinched under his touch, to bring the chair up and let him settle in a seating position. The handcuffs hadn't been disturbed.

"We're fine!" Aram dismissed. "No problems with the case." His hand gestures sent the first few people back to work, all laboring away on getting information on possible assailants who would want to harm their director. His glares got almost everyone back in front of their computer screens.

"Problem solved," Ressler said as he stuck Wells's seat to Aram's desk. The last few people resumed their previous tasks.

Whispering now, moderately afraid of being overheard, Don turned to Wells.

"What'd she do?"

Yelling didn't and wouldn't do, Wells had realized, so he maintained the tone of his voice as well as he could. "She had my daughter. Asked me if I could identify anyone by their voices."

"Call Keen," he said to Aram. "Ask about his daughter."

"Sure."

Back to Wells. "_I_ asked you that, too."

Wells nodded. Sure, he had – before the mystery woman and her black aide, back when he was convinced members of the FBI didn't catch the big bad wolves because there were moral lines they wouldn't cross. _Effective woman, this Keen_. He said nothing in response.

"She's fine," Ressler repeated for the millionth time, but more unsure than ever.

* * *

Strange species, the likes of Alex Carter. Like Red but more public, the man was an expert at keeping the police away, irrespective of the shape the men in blue came in. Be it drugs or murder, no charges were powerful enough to bring him to court, for lack of – who'd have thought? – evidence. Because the chain of command in Carter's intricate web was so indescribably long, no cops or rogue agents could trace the origins of a crime back to him. He hired someone to hire someone to hire someone to do a job, so that no associations were overt enough to direct dear old FBI to him.

But he still lived in a mansion – and one which didn't welcome strangers.

When Liz reached the main gate, she stayed back and looked for a camera. She spotted no less than five only on first glance, but she only needed to approach one and smile up at it, hoping whoever sat in the little watch room he'd definitely set up would prove themselves useful and call Carter over.

"Elizabeth Keen," she said into the microphone installed beside the gate. Attached to it was a loudspeaker. The two were boxed together and integrated into a clean-looking metal cube.

Distracted but not fazed by her phone vibrating at her hip, she stretched an arm to reach and turn it off, eyes roaming around to identify more cameras. She didn't know, but Ressler called another five times before he gave up and sent people to pick Wells's daughter up and prove she was untouched. The feds would find Dembe nowhere near her, nor would they locate evidence she'd ever been around either him or Liz.

She waited a good minute until Carter's voice came through the speaker, deep and unmistakable. The first part of the intimidation process by Alex Carter was, in Liz's experience, always saying anything banal in the hoarsest version of his voice. Liz bet it hadn't failed him once.

"Who's this?"

No formalities existed with this man, either. If he could speak solely in contractions, he'd have no qualms about it.

The watchman must've been away when she'd said her name.

"Liz Keen," she said; then, after a pause. "Alex."

Carter's laugh came through soft and far away. Liz guessed he was preparing to greet her at the entrance, a room so large it could contain hundreds of people.

The gates opened inwards and slowly. Liz waited for them to halt before she stepped into the garden, a massive spread of lawn and bushes and flowers with the occasional fountain and a curved pathway to the entry doors. A little over thirty seconds later, she was climbing the stairs to knock on the door. In contradiction to Carter's open arms, two of his guys launched from her sides to scan and feel her pockets for weapons and bugs. One of them dug up her .45 and threw it to his boss. Her eyes rolled so far back, it must've worried Alex.

"Boy, am I glad to see you," he said and ushered his men away after they'd established no minute device was recording the conversation.

Liz shook her head and scoffed. "I bet you say that to everyone who pays you."

His eyebrows shot up as he led her into an adjacent living room, complete with three leather couches, at least five coffee tables and a fireplace large enough to set the house on fire if provoked.

"Are you gonna pay me?"

"I'll have to. Unless you're providing services for free now."

Carter's grin widened as he plopped down on a couch and motioned for her to do the same.

"Shoot."

"I have a seller who won't sell."

Alex Carter always needed a start like that – a one liner to spark his interest or he sent you on your way as eagerly as he'd welcomed you into his home. It only took once to know what he wanted, and Liz had the experience.

"Alright," he prompted.

"I want to buy what he's got, but I'm either offering too little or he's telling the truth: someone's already got dibs on him."

"How'd it go the first time?"

"He laughed in my face when I offered ten million, told me he was… sold out."

At this, Carter tilted his head. "What are you trying to buy, Liz Keen?"

In a break from levity, she answered, "My partner."

That her partner was Raymond Reddington, Carter didn't need to know.

"What's your partner going around getting sold on the street?"

"You used to be a lot more professional than –"

Carter regretted not catching himself, so he waved to interrupt her. "Fine, I'll give you Hamilton. Is Hamilton alright?"

Liz frowned. "That's it? 'Take Hamilton and leave?'"

He shrugged, still smiling, wondering how long it'd be until Liz realized her mouth stayed agape.

"You're right – details aren't mine to know. Talk to her."

"She's gonna do it?"

"She always does it. Buying someone isn't gonna be hard."

"That's my point – Hamilton isn't cheap… or gentle. I need someone to go… try hard to get him, that's all; because I can't be there, I used to be FBI. Don't need anyone killed."

His smile didn't fade until her last word, but she didn't spend a second regretting it; stared him down instead. Carter straightened before he spoke.

"You're trying to buy a dude who's presumably worth _much _more than ten million – I'm giving you the best. She won't get refused. Or beaten up. Or killed."

Liz's acceptance was hesitant, but Carter took advantage. He reached behind him to grab a piece of paper and a pen and jotted something down; handed it to Liz. She read the address but didn't recognize it, so she relaxed into the cushions and hoped he'd offer a drink. Any kind of drink would do, but knowing Carter – it'd be as hard as the one she'd taken from Red when she had him alone in a well-lighted room with more books than she'd ever imagined she'd see at once. His hand had been coarse. She imagined Carter's would be, too, but she didn't want to linger on Alex's.

"You don't know it's a dude," she said.

"It is." He sat back to observe her. Maybe Carter always looked like a predator because he was. "And it's killing you that you can't personally be there to save him. Nice story, I'm guessing."

Liz looked away like their conversation had halted a while beforehand.

"Find her there," he said. A beat. Then he scoffed and said, mostly to himself, "Any time."

She tucked the piece of paper away and looked back up at Carter. The smile had made a return.

He asked, "Want a drink?"

* * *

Liz hadn't recognized the address, Dembe noticed upon arrival, for good reason. The man he only knew by name had directed her to a neighborhood long since forgotten, except for one building. A spacious one-storey the people inside presumably called a club; or could it be a bar? Either way, if anyone turned the music up any louder inside, Dembe's car would've vibrated.

"He's given you the best?" he asked. Neither dared step outside of the car without a scan, for fear of hidden sentries or armed, drunken dancers.

As Liz shut the Mercedes door behind her, she saw Red; ignored the half worried, half disappointed face she knew he'd made if he knew she was about to enter a hole creepier for strangers than any prison she'd ever heard of.

"This is the best," she said. _Apparently. _

"Does she know you're coming – Hamilton?"

"Carter said he'd talk to her."

"Are we working on 'Carter said' now?"

With a quick glance in his direction, she said, "We have to."

If it hadn't been for Dembe joining in, the door would never have opened. He let Liz step in first and exhaled a sigh of relief when he didn't have to hold the gate anymore. His ribs hurt.

The bass brought Liz's heart up to her throat. The vocals made her whole body tingle, starting from the toes and raising the short hairs on her head. The piano compensated with its inability to climb to irritatingly loud, but not nearly enough. They'd walked into a scene straight out of _Dirty Dancing_.

"Do we know what she looks like?" Dembe shouted._ No chance_.

"What?"

"Hamilton!" he yelled and gestured to ask, "Where?"

_Maybe it's the brunette everyone just made room for._ But none of that came out. She nudged Dembe in the arm instead and nodded toward the crowd in the middle of the club. It'd parted like a homogenous mass for a dancer who'd spent her break at the bar, downing her drink of choice. Dressed in a white tank top and jeans, outfit complete with heels, Liz assumed that was beer.

"Why are you assuming?" Dembe tried, but Liz caught none of it.

He intended to try again, but she motioned for Dembe to watch on. The way Brunette approached her partner, like swaying her hips came naturally, promised a good three minute show, if not the best in a while. The two set the scene in motion, and it seemed like they did every night. But this bar wasn't the type to keep two people in the spotlight for too long. The rest of the crowd wasn't there to admire, they were there to dance.

The first minute of the song was Brunette-dominated, like people needed a Brunette fix before they got going, like people need reassurance at the beginning of the concert that they haven't come for nothing. And then couples started joining in and Liz noticed different people than Dembe, each with a style of their own but very little interest in showcasing it. Just there to dance. It became apparent at the same time to Liz as it did to Dembe that there was no valid answer to the question 'why do good dancers associate themselves with sleazy clubs?' It fit.

Liz's admiration trance was interrupted by an intense stare from Brunette's partner. He proceeded to squeeze her hip and push her back to draw her attention and turn her towards the visitors he'd noticed. Brunette nodded her thanks to her partner and let her hand linger at the back of his head before motioning Liz to follow her. She followed the dancer to the back of the club, passing her partner in the process, who had to have looked her up and down before moving to the bar. A compliment, sure, but unusual nonetheless.

Green-eyed Brunette officially became Hamilton when she unlocked the door she'd led her new employer to, stepped aside to let them both in and pulled two beers out of a cabinet. While Liz and Dembe took their sets at the center table, Hamilton opened the bottles.

"I'm guessing one of you is gonna be driving, so… Don't want either of you injured or… dead," she said and slid a bottle over to Dembe and Liz. Neither took her up on her offer.

"Alright," Hamilton conceded and drank. "Chelsea Hamilton," she announced.

"You're giving your name," Liz said.

"So does Alex Carter," she said. Name meant nothing when you knew how things worked. Liz's mind jumped to Red.

"I could be recording you right now."

Dembe raised his eyebrows.

Chelsea's smile was arrogant. Liz assumed she had no other smile. By the looks of her face, too many people had entered that same room and been suspicious of her apparent lack of control.

"You have no idea how many things would've beeped like crazy if you were. I'm surprised you're unarmed."

"I assumed having a gun would earn me a bullet to the head," she responded.

Chelsea's proud smile wasn't all that different to her smug one. "True."

"Elizabeth Keen," Liz said. "Did he mention what I need?"

"He did." Another sip of the Heineken. "He also said I'd be trying to buy Red Reddington."

Liz's mouth dropped open, but it wasn't followed by Dembe. They hadn't made the smallest of contact, but he didn't underestimate Carter, Hamilton, or the power of their alliance.

"This seller," Hamilton continued, "used to be Reddington's friend. They used to work together. Whenever Reddington needed information from a guy who wasn't easy to track down, this trafficker got a hold of him and sold him off to your… partner."

"Law of the jungle – things change."

"Alright, so… nothing I should know?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm asking. If there's anything you think you ought to tell me before I go in, you should do it now."

Liz shook her head. She started considering the beer. "How much?"

"Five," Hamilton said. In less than twelve hours, she and Carter had put everything together. On seeing Liz's expression, she said, "Five million."

Dembe stayed stoic, but it proved difficult.

"Plus however much the seller wants for Reddington."

Hesitant but under immense pressure, Liz replied: "Five it is. Thought the details weren't Carter's to know."

"Carter lies," Hamilton said like it gave her great pleasure. "And he knows other people lie, too, so he spends very little time with the employer and a lot on the research. You've worked with him before."

"He sought _me _out then."

Dembe searched an explanation on her face, but Liz was determined to leave conversations about past activities for a later time. His eyes returned to Chelsea.

"Lucky you."

"When can you do it?"

Hamilton dismissed her question. "Why would you rather buy him? With Carter involved, it's easier to just… take him."

Liz's face darkened with realization. "I told him I am done with people dying."

"He'll live."

"You said Carter did the research. It's still possible that Red costs much more than we were willing to give the first time and there's no buyer yet. If this guy's working with someone else, that someone's going to be on our asses the moment Red gets home."

"We'll ask nicely: 'Hey seller, who are you working for?'"

""Cause that always works."

Hamilton was nothing but incredulous by now. "You're wasting money. _I'm_ wasting time."

"No matter the reason he's holding off, a good offer's going to break him. I'm not on a budget. If we take forcefully without asking, someone's bound to want revenge."

"You can't tell me Reddington can't –"

"If the transaction goes off without a hitch, _Reddington _won't have to spend another year or two worrying some bigger-than-a-poor-seller mob is planning his demise."

_The best_, Dembe thought, _but awfully forceful. Solve the problem now and consequences be damned. _Red would've agreed, but so what? All decisions concerning this operation belonged to Liz and would not be subjected to 'what if's.

Hamilton accepted her fate with her hands up. "Fine, your call."

So Liz asked again: "When?"

"In the next forty-eight hours. But I need to know now that if he doesn't take what I have to offer, I can take Reddington."

There was no chance for any of them to blink in the time that it took Liz to say, "You can."

Chelsea nodded with conviction for the first time that night. "Two out of five in advance, and the rest when it's done. I go talk and see how much he wants, get back to you and you provide."

Simple business discussion, but it sounded to Liz like an ultimatum. If he knew, Dembe would've told her all Reddington ever heard from or said to business partners sounded like an ultimatum. It was their alternative to holding a gun at one another's temple.

Liz thought about asking if Hamilton had any way of contacting her, but it sounded as stupid as assuming Carter hadn't been bluffing. So she rose and extended her hand to Chelsea, who shook it without hesitation. She picked up her beer and directed Liz and Dembe outside, throwing one last glance at the man Alex Carter had mentioned was Reddington's aide.

As they walked out, Hamilton's voice came from behind Liz, overpowering the music.

"How you were ever an agent, I don't know."

* * *

The sunset always looks better from a luxury home. The view also improves if a cigar and at least a glass of scotch on the rocks are involved. But as Red found out, being devoid of your partner detracts from the enjoyment and lessens admiration.

The man Liz and Dembe now referred to as the seller came out onto the balcony like he'd had the most awful of days. He joined Red to release tension, but supposed prisoner always needed updates.

"Got one for me?" he asked and pointed at Red's glass.

"Help yourself."

Red found the wait torturous. "Talk while you pour."

"Well, your dear Lizzie's investigating away. I had someone come up to me and ask how much you were – that was her hand. Had Ressler help her, but – still her. Now, she's trying even harder."

"Is she?" he said, eyes closed and neck arched backwards. He'd disposed of his fedora so that his head rested comfortably against the wall. In his withdrawal, he took pleasure in knowing Lizzie was doing it all to find him.

"Oh, yeah." He looked Red up and down and thought his satisfaction just on this side of disturbing. Excusable. He had no way of knowing. "He made contact."

At that, Red pulled himself straight and smiled through his drink. "Has he really?"

"Yep, he did." The seller downed his glass and hurried to get himself another. "If he checks now, he'll find Keen hard at work and the FBI stressed out trying to get to you. Nothing suspicious about that – he'll think he's got you. Can't waste time playing around, though – she's getting too close. Don't know who she's gonna send next."

"No, you don't have to do that. Plan a meeting."

Exceptionally proud of himself, chest forward as much as he could, the seller said, "That, my man, I did. We're officially seeing Berlin two days from now."

"Good job."

"Or, listen to this!" Laughing at himself. "Never thought I'd say this, but – Berlin's buying you, Red, cheers to that!" They clinked glasses. "Not a bad strategy after all."

Red drank some more and willed himself not to despise his current company because it wasn't Liz. He thought, with Berlin subdued in the next few days, he might take her out on a balcony similar to the one that housed him now to show her the sunset and watch her head fall back as she downed _his _drink of choice. And maybe they'd spend the night in complete silence, with the exception of the music coming from inside, and she'd be perfectly comfortable sitting next to the man who'd staged his own kidnapping without informing her to draw their enemy out.

* * *

**A/N**: I don't know how many people expected my going thise route, or how original it is, but... I'm giving it a go.

The last part/chapter - _Red Soldier_ - is hopefully gonna be shorter and up a lot sooner.

Reviews are love. Thank youuuuu so much for sticking around/reviewing/following the story. You're great.

Ally - out


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